


Our Gentle Terror

by spearmintgreen



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark, F/M, Kidnapping, Vague Allusions to Death, a fairly decent amount of violence, probably some gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-03-22 17:02:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13768569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spearmintgreen/pseuds/spearmintgreen
Summary: A bored sociopath, a rich young heir, and a junior in highschool. They will tear each other apart.





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so here we go! I'm hoping to make this into a full length fic, but we shall see.
> 
> As for warnings - you know what you clicked on.
> 
> Also, since I forgot to add this in to the A/N on FFN: this fic takes place in the Chicago area. Why? Because I can do what I want.

* * *

_ Plenty of humans were monstrous, and plenty of monsters knew how to play at being human. _

__ -Victoria Schwab _ _

 

* * *

 

The car smelled of leather and an unidentifiable air freshener, a surprisingly pleasant combination. It should have smelled like blood, and rot, and decay. It should have smelled like the putrid festering of disease.

 

But it didn’t.

 

The duct tape stretched across her mouth stuck to her frizzy hair, ripping strands out. Her bound hands strained behind her back. Bruises, sickly greens, purples, and yellows, had already begun to crawl their way around her arms.

 

Child locks, able only to be opened from the front seat, trapped her inside the car. 

 

Trees rushed by out the window.

 

“I’ll take the tape off soon, but if you scream I’ll have to put it back on,” the young man, her captor, said. His eyes remained locked on the road. Waves of hair almost dark enough to be classified as black framed his pale, angular face. 

 

Hermione glared out the tinted glass of the window. It had been at least an hour since they’d passed the little sign that announced they were leaving her town. She knew they weren’t far from the main highway that would take them far away from the safety of home.

 

Her lip trembled, and a fresh bout of tears blurred the world. Her chest shook and her lungs heaved. The tang of blood filled her mouth. Pressure filled the spaces in between her ribs. It felt like sorrow, and it felt like death.

 

They’d gotten to a traffic light before the ramp onto the highway when, without warning, her captor turned halfway around and ripped off the tape.

 

Hermione gasped. She fell silent again when he didn’t react. Once more his attention was on the road.

 

A dark blue car blared on its horn when her captor swerved a little too close as they merged onto the highway. She wished it had hit them. She wished it would ram right into his side of the car, mangling his limbs and crushing his ribs through his heart. She wished it would, but it didn’t.

 

More than once she considered kicking the back of his seat. Hermione imagined planting her foot on his face and breaking his straight, aristocratic nose. She pictured the comical look of shock that would paint his features as she drove her heel into his eye socket.

 

“What’s your name?” The polite question startled her. She looked at the overhead mirror and saw him raise an eyebrow at her silence. “Well?”

 

“What does it matter?” Hermione asked bitterly. Her brows furrowed together and lips twisted, sticky with residue from the tape. Still, her heart raced at giving such a rude response.

 

“I need to call you something, and I think that just referring to you as ‘girl’ would feel rather degrading, would it not?” Amusement colored his tone. She hated it.

 

Rather than answer, Hermione asked, “What’s your name, then?”

 

“That’s not how this works,” he stated, dark eyes leveled on her in the mirror. They were emotionless. Icy dread wrapped its fingers around her neck. “I will ask you questions, and if you answer them then I will consider answering some of yours in return.”

 

“Okay,” she hesitated, wondering if it was a good idea to give him her full name. “You can call me Granger,” she said after a pause. 

 

“And you may call me Riddle,” the man replied. “It’s  _ my _ last name,” he added, again looking right into her eyes using the mirror. He knew. Riddle smiled, displaying two rows of shining, even teeth. The rest of his face remained blank and empty.

 

“So,  _ Granger _ ,” he drew out the syllables of her name, molding the shapes of the letters with his mouth, “how old are you?” Red flags sprung to life in Hermione’s mind.

 

“Sixteen,” she lied. She’d turned seventeen three weeks prior. “How old are  _ you?”  _

 

_ “ _ I’m twenty.” Riddle tilted his head to look at something out the window. The last light of the setting sun bathed his profile in gold. Shadows played around his eyes, masking the emotions there.

 

Dull crackling filled the air as Riddle turned on the radio. A grainy, distorted version of what sounded like a Frank Sinatra song filtered in. 

 

“What’s your favourite subject in school?” he asked. 

 

“I can only have one?” For a moment he looked surprised, but his expression flattened again.

 

“Yes, just one.”

 

“Well,” Hermione began, “I’d probably have to say Chemistry. It’s fascinating.”

 

The atmosphere felt taut and oppressive. She was holding a relatively normal conversation with her kidnapper. 

 

Frank Sinatra held out a long note at the end of his song.

 

Riddle grinned. “Really? And I assume that you get all A’s?”

 

Without thinking, Hermione raised her nose at him. “Of course my grades are all A’s,” she said, the note of defensiveness ringing all too clear. If he minded her attitude, he didn't show it. He looked calm, almost serene. It scared her more than if he'd yelled at her.

 

“How many others have there been?” she asked, trying not to sound like she cared about the answer. Her hands tingled from being trapped behind her for so long. 

 

“What makes you think there have been others?” He sounded genuinely interested.

 

She wouldn’t let him distract her. “How many?” Hermione pressed.

 

“You are the third.” The calm expression seemed stiff, almost frozen, as though he were forcing himself not to let the mask drop at his revelation. Only his eyes held any emotion, a mad gleam that flickered as the shadows on his face shifted.

 

“I see.” Hermione swallowed the growing lump in her throat. She gnawed on her lip.

 

“Do you know why I kidnapped you?” Riddle’s lips curved into a smirk. “Why I kidnapped  _ them?  _ Why I took you from that alley on your way home from school, Granger?”

 

Hermione ground her teeth together. “No, I don’t. Why did you kidnap us?”

 

His eyes flashed red with the light of a neon sign as they drove past. He smiled then, and it was the realest emotion he’d shown since he dragged her into his car. “I was bored.”

 

Pain shot through Hermione’s arm as she shifted in her seat.

 

“Do you want to know what happened to them?” he asked. Air burned it’s way to her lungs. She took a ragged breath.

 

Voice thick, she answered, “I think I already know.”

 

He turned the car onto an exit ramp illuminated by a single yellow light. In the distance, Hermione saw the outline of Chicago, bright against the darkening backdrop of the evening sky. Deep reds and burgundy purples were the only remainders of the picturesque sunset.

  
  


Mansions, cold and towering, passed by on either side. Their manicured lawns stretched as far as the eye could see, wasteful in their vastness. Imposing iron fences guarded the impressive homes.

 

Riddle turned then, onto a long, winding driveway lined on either side by sculpted bushes. Hermione started at the sight of the lavish house they were approaching. It was bigger than any of the mansions they’d just passed, and at least doubly extravagant. Curved stairs led to an enormous pair of gilded doors, each with a large family crest. Marble columns held up an engraved archway that read  _ Sanctimonia Vincet Semper  _ in proud Romanesque letters. Fountains and statues adorned the yard, as well as what looked suspiciously like live albino peacocks.

 

A blond man dressed in casual slacks and a blue polo watched them impassively from the top of the stairs. Riddle’s jaw clenched as the man crossed his arms over his chest. 

 

Confusion mixed with stark panic rippled through Hermione. Against Riddle alone she might have had a chance to escape, but against these two men together she knew her odds were significantly worse.

 

Riddle turned the car off and then glared at her in the mirror. “I’m going to go talk to him, and when we come back to get you, you are not to speak a word to him. Do you understand me?” She nodded. The line between his brows deepened.

 

He left his door open. She wondered if it was a test. It didn’t matter. Even if she could manage to climb from the backseat to the front with her hands bound, there was no way she’d be able to do so without being noticed and subsequently recaptured. Her efforts would be in vain and would only serve to make him angry.

 

When she escaped, she would do so only when she was absolutely sure it would work. And then she’d kill him. She’d drive a knife into his chest until he was choking on his blood. The malicious glow in his eyes would fade, leaving them glazed and unseeing.

 

Hermione strained to hear what Riddle and the blond man were saying, but they were too far away. They both looked upset, though. She could see Riddle gesturing wildly as the other man pointed in her direction. After several minutes of this, it appeared they had come to some sort of agreement because they began to walk to the car.

 

Riddle slammed his door shut as the blond man came to stand outside her door. He peered in the window at her. Hermione raised her chin in defiance, making sure to look right into his eyes. 

 

“This one is going to be trouble,” the blond man stated, eyes still not leaving hers.

 

“Come now, Abraxas, you’re not doubting me, are you? After all we’ve been through? I’m hurt.” The blond, Abraxas, looked away from her to send a disgusted expression at Riddle.

 

“Don’t forget, Riddle, there will come a time when you no longer hold any leverage over me, and I will not be forced to do your dirty work.”

 

“But today isn’t that day,” Riddle said smoothly. He glanced at her. “It’s time to go inside now. Make sure she doesn’t manage to escape.” With that, he turned and walked towards the mansion, whistling a chipper tune.

 

Abraxas heaved a sigh. He opened her door and held out a hand as though to help her out. She stared at it. He thrust his hand farther towards her, the formerly blank look on his face contorting into irritation. 

 

“Why aren’t you taking my hand?” he bit out. Hermione looked at him as though he might be stupid, and then slowly shifted in her seat to show him her bound hands. Abraxas flinched, something unreadable flashing across his face.

 

Silence danced around in the cooling night air.

 

“You’ll be comfortable here,” he assured her. Hermione doubted that. 

 

Abraxas grabbed her arm and pulled her up, grunting with the effort. She didn’t struggle, didn’t try to break free. His grip on her arm tightened.

 

“Why did he kidnap me? What’s he going to do to me?” Hermione whispered. Her breath caught in her throat.

 

She had to know. She  _ needed  _ to know.

 

Abraxas began walking towards the mansion, dragging her along beside him. “I don’t know,” he admitted after a pause.

 

Hermione dragged her feet as they climbed the stairs. The fabric on the toe of her shoes scraped with each step.

 

He stopped, then, a few feet from the imposing doors. “He’s not all that he seems. You’d do well to tread with caution.” She started to ask what he meant, but Abraxas twitched, shaking himself, and then proceeded to open the doors. 

 

Riddle stood in the midst of the most impressive hallway she’d ever seen. Black and white marble tile offset the deep burgundy walls adorned with intricate paintings. Gold chandeliers sparkled and cast a warm glow. Busts of both metal and stone stared out from their decorative tables, grotesque smiles forever etched into their cheeks. The ceiling stretched up into a glass dome, complete with gold inscriptions too small to be made out.

 

“Good, you made it,” Riddle commented, voice empty of inflection. Abraxas pushed Hermione in his direction. She glared at his back as he turned to close and lock the doors.

 

“Why here?” Hermione asked. Riddle tilted his head to study her. His dark eyes bored into her brown ones. 

 

If eyes were the windows to the soul, then he didn’t have a soul. There was nothing in his eyes, not the faintest flicker of life. 

 

“Why not?” he smiled infuriatingly. “Come, I’ll show you your room.”

 

Riddle offered her his arm. “I can’t.” His smile grew, the corners splitting his face into something vicious and animalistic.

 

“And why is that?” His eyes were locked on her face.

 

“My hands are still tied behind my back,” Hermione hissed. Her eyes flashed and her nostrils flared. Riddle chuckled low in his throat, the sound made of deep, poisoned honey.

 

“You do not seem to fear me.” He stated it casually. But he’d gone still, every line of his tall frame rigid. Hermione swallowed.

 

She straightened to her full height, ignoring the wild beating of her heart. “I don’t fear you.” 

 

She did.

 

He studied her a moment longer and then nodded. “You will.”

 

* * *

  
  
  



	2. the game begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i really do feel awful for making you guys wait so long for this (especially since this isn't even all that long), but i swear i won't abandon this story - even if it takes me 20 years to finish it.

* * *

 

 The room, _her_ room, was green. Everything from the carpet, to the walls, to the bedspread, to the dresser, had a dark emerald hue. Patterns of leafy vines sprawled their way through the floor, their jagged leaves harsh and unforgiving.

 

A small bookcase sat in the far corner, its few inhabitants gathering dust. They were old, and about obscure topics that sounded almost sinister, but in an unidentifiable way. Hermione ran a finger over the spine of one. The rope still binding her hands together tightened.

 

“Is it to your liking?” She jolted at the question whispered in her ear. Riddle stood inches behind her, not quite touching her. She flinched away.

 

“Yes.” That much, at least, wasn’t a lie. She had expected to be given a closet or to be put in the mildewy corner of a cold basement. This was infinitely better, and she wouldn’t risk complaining and losing it.

 

“Good, your comfort is my utmost priority.” He delivered it so deadpan it was almost funny. Nervous laughter tickled her stomach.

 

She didn’t respond, and he didn’t say anything else. His eyes followed her as she moved around her gilded cage.

 

Hermione almost sat on the bed. It looked so inviting, with a thick, elegant comforter on top of what was sure to be an expensive mattress, more pillows than one person could reasonably need, and a four poster canopy.

 

But then she remembered where she was, and who she was with. 

 

The bed felt like a beautiful trap. Like the warm golden light to a naive fly. Instead, she settled for a stiff-backed chair in the corner. Riddle continued to stand, his only movement the rise and fall of his chest. Hermione drummed her fingers against her leg.

 

There were no lamps, no candles, no paperweights, and no sharp or heavy objects of any kind. Nothing that could be weaponized. He was clever.

 

She watched him from the corner of her eye. His hands lay at his sides, one clenched into a white knuckled fist, the other flat against the side of his upper thigh. He hadn’t blinked in a very long time. The light from the chandelier flickered, extending his shadow into creatures with sharp claws and fangs.

 

A heartbeat, loud and fast and sharp against the bones holding it inside thundered in the quiet. 

 

Hermione heard Riddle breathe. In. Out.

 

The wind rattled against the window. Creaks, some faint and some jarring, settled in the walls and floor.

 

In.

 

Hermione turned her head to look at the door as footsteps echoed down the hall. She resisted the urge to call for help, to scream. It would do her no good. She sank one of her nails into the tender skin on the side of her knee.

 

Out.

 

Riddle stepped closer to her. She froze, chills creeping through her body. A knot twisted her stomach.

 

In.

 

A drop of blood gathered in the shallow crescent moon scratch, coating her fingertip with a thin layer of red. 

 

He was standing over her, now, his looming form blocking out the light. A soft breeze of his scent caressed Hermione’s face. He smelled of her house. Of the evergreen candles her mother insisted on burning. Of the mint hand soap her father loved. Of home. It would have been comforting, but in this setting it invoked a deep unease. He hadn’t taken her from her home, he hadn’t  _ been there  _ for the scent to cling to him. Unless he had.

 

Out.

 

His exhale stirred her hair. 

 

In.

 

He rested a hand on the back of the chair, wrist just brushing her shoulder. Slowly, Riddle leaned down until he was kneeling in front of her. His nose ghosted along her cheek, leaving burning tingles in its wake. She didn’t dare pull away. Her own breathing was shallow.

 

Her mind conjured the image of herself ramming the top of her head into his nose, shattering the cartilage into his brain.

 

Out.

 

Voice soft, he whispered, warm breath puffing against her ear, “Does it hurt?”

 

In.

 

Voice cracking, Hermione managed, “What?” Riddle’s cheek scraped against her own, the faintest hint of stubble making the sensation itch. She was suffocating.

 

Out.

 

She sucked in air, his air. It tasted sweet in her mouth, sugary on her tongue.

 

He sat back to look her in the eyes, and his free hand came up to wrap around her calf. A trickle of blood leaked from the scratch she’d made. His dark eyes tracked it in fascination.

 

A vein pulsed in his neck. His jugular. Would it be possible to scratch it open, Hermione wondered? Could she dig her nails into the soft skin of his throat and tear away the delicate layers of muscle and flesh until blood gushed out from the gaping hole? 

 

What would he do if she tried?

 

Riddle’s nails pressed against the wound. Her nostrils flared. She swallowed. He tapped the pads of his fingers against the blood-smeared skin. Even now, his empty eyes stayed on hers.

 

The taste of vomit coated Hermione’s tongue. It bubbled up and churned in her stomach.

 

Tears rose unbidden to Hermione’s eyes. Her knees locked together. She couldn’t,  _ wouldn’t  _ allow this to happen. 

 

In a low voice, Riddle began, “You’ll come to love it here. You won’t even want to leave. And by the time our fun is about to end, you’ll-”

 

It was the best opportunity she was probably going to get. Hermione drew back her leg and rammed the hard bone of her knee up into his chin as she jumped to a stand. She barely felt it, but she heard a sharp crack split from Riddle’s jaw. He careened backwards, toppling to the floor in an inelegant heap.

 

She’d barely had time to begin to desperately make for the door when he lunged at her, sprawling across the floor and flinging out a hand to wrap around her ankle. She twisted her leg in his grip, throwing all her weight into yanking herself free.

 

“You  _ bitch, _ ” he spat, his death grip only tightening. Hermione tried to turn to use her free foot to kick him, but this time he anticipated her movement and blocked the blow. He gave her ankle a sharp tug, pulling her leg out from under her and sending her to her knees.

 

“No!” Hermione whipped herself around, hands coming up defensively just as Riddle surged forward and tackled her to the ground. The back of her head hit the carpet with a loud thump. Inky shapes crawled across her vision. 

 

His weight pinned her legs at painful angles, restricting her movement. An angry shout tore from Riddle’s lips as Hermione raked her nails down his face, leaving ragged red trails in their wake. She struck at his face again, aiming for the furious dark eyes that she couldn’t escape. 

 

She knew this would be a moment she never forgot; a terrible, brutal horror for her nightmares that she’d wake from screaming even twenty, thirty years after it was over. It was a distant thought. A blip in the stream of curses and prayers to gods she didn’t believe in.

 

Perhaps that was why she continued to struggle. For the After. For the day when this would be a memory.

 

In the struggle to get her hands away from his face, Riddle managed to grab her wrists. The rough bonds burned her skin as she tried to jerk free.

 

And she screamed. The sound tore from her raw vocal cords, an anguished plea to anyone listening. Riddle gritted his teeth, unable to do anything to silence her with both his hands occupied.

 

Hermione smiled then, her eyes momentarily flashing with something dark and unreadable before she went still. 

 

* * *

  
  
  
  



End file.
